nuts and bolts.

And screws.

Dear Mom,

I woke up yesterday morning and it was all clear, the bell's clarity was resounding all through me, it was this crazy-rapid series of images that gently lifted me from sleep and brought me to rest on a cradle of understanding. 

I believed in your magical voodoo, I was taught to believe it, so of course I did, that the *safe* people were the ones who professed to believe the same voodoo as you do (okay, sorry, but that's just kind of really funny and I couldn't not), but then -- when I went outside of that fold, as I had to do, because that is where reality exists, I discovered I was ill-equipped to defend myself. 

I was raped and molested on multiple occasions, beginning at age three, by a boy, the son of the woman hosting your bible-study group.  Did you know that?  Me neither.  Not until I was older and the soggy, blurred edges of the memory sort of took hold and I understood what that watering can (or maybe it was a small oil-can?, like, one for his mom's sewing machine?, something like that, anyway, it had a protrusion from whence the container's contents would pour out, and, uh, yes) was doing in the mix.

I was trusting.  Because I was told that *certain* people, *certain* men, would be safe.  Were safe.  Perfectly so.  And maybe you didn't say that in so many words, and maybe you even tried, brokenly, to explain something else entirely, but your actions spoke so much more loudly than the broken verbal communique.  Your behaviors, the prayer over me, nightly, where you asked, "Oh, lord, dear jesus, put a hedge about our sweet, precious baby girl, lord, god,"  and I could see the hedge; its thick screen, its spicy scent, its surround of me, and I was safe.

But I was not safe.

Was I?

I'm fairly certain that the answer is no.  Unless, to be safe means to never understand, sort of like those women and their children in the Texas Mormon sect, the ones that the Texas courts have determined must be returned to their families, which seems pretty cracked out to me, but then, I would've wanted the same if I were a kid in that situation.

Safe.

Hmmm.

The business, given to me by too many to count, is this:  I did not possess the tools to face the meanness and cruelty of the world, and your ongoing blindness in this is painful.

And I am pain'd.

And I forgive you.

I think.

Comments

[qt]

This post....while I hate to hail it as genius due to the subject matter...it IS genius. As for your mom -I battled many mom issues, but not this one. My mom told me from the drop to be suspicious of ALL MEN, and my dad? Was included in ALL MEN.

Thanks for sharing this, sweets. And so eloquently.

[jaelithe]

*hugs*

[Suebob]

Ah sweetie. Sometimes forgiveness is a lifetime process.

[flutter]

It's been awhile since I have been here to see you. Prodded by those who call us both friends. Now I see why.

Your bravery.

[MelanieinOrygun]

(((You)))

I was instructed to distrust all men, like qt. But it still didn't protect me.

I heart you.

[slouching mom]

(applauding)

damn deb, say it.

say it for all of us.

[Attila the Mom]

Oh heck, my heart is just breaking. (((big hugs)))

[daisybones]

I love the way you wrote this, like how it has your own everydebpost voice and the facts and emotions are just there as themselves being themselves. Like you do. I love that you shared it and I'm happy there is forgiveness. (I don't have any of that in me for my family of abuse-enabling women.)

I am often overtaken by an urgent need to come find you and hug you and buy you rums and cokes.

[Andrea]

My eyes are welling up, reading this.

It hurts to read, these glimpses into what happened in your childhood. But the forgiveness is like a big breath, stretching the lungs and somehow making the whole body feel better. Forgiveness is good. And not an all or nothing kind of thing, at least not every time.

I'm proud of you.

[Deathbysoup]

Found your journal randomly today.
I can relate alot to this entry and a few of your others. Im sorry you had to go through that, are going through this .

[mamatulip]

Debbie.

Thank you.

[Emily R]

Your last line got me. It really did.

[hele]

My mom also did not look behind every door the way she could have. She allowed my dad to talk her into hiring a young teenage boy as a babysitter despite her inner voice shouting no. And then for years she shut out the memory of the letter my 5 year sister wrote her about it.

For the past few years we have talked about it and my own experiences of ignoring my inner voice has helped me understand it all better.

I'm glad I found your blog today.

[Ruth Dynamite]

So proud of you.

[Lotta]

Crap Deb. I wish I could go back in time and protect you.